


Duality

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot Collection, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 05, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 05:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12125100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Two separate accounts converge as one. Governor rewards Deputy; Governor entertains Prisoner.





	1. Reward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Saint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Saint/gifts).



> First and foremost, please note that these stories are two separate accounts that will be lopped together as one. You may consider it a case of juxtaposition or parallels. Story one exists within the season three arc; story two takes place within season five. Two one shots for the price of one. I was provided with a gif and was told to roll with it. Here we are. Enjoy.

At last, the rabbit catches on. Deputy Governor Vera Bennett has facilitated an extensive search of H Block in the thick of the night. In passing, she catches wind of the lingo. There's talk of gear hidden in a mattress along with an array of shivs buried in books for an impending riot. She stops it dead in its tracks.

Watching the dogs sniff about, she feels a keen sense of accomplishment. She holds her head up high. Makes herself appear taller than she actually is. Her shadow carries across the prison wall.

Smith is apprehended.

Doyle puts up a fuss.

Vera is learning.

Joan ought to be proud.

Her deputy revels in the  _modest_ victory.

You expect more of a story to this, but there isn't. That same evening, Miss Bennett nears the end of her double shift. Those staff cutbacks always bite though she doesn't complain about it. She simply looks forward to when she can venture hope and slip into threadbare pajamas and check under her bed for the Devil you know.

Instead, she's invited into the Devil's den. Same concept.

There, she has too much to drink. One vodka tonic too many. She wishes it were a mojito. Vera excuses herself to the private restroom, her tie hanging over her now unoccupied seat. Ever mindful, the Governor watches her.

The clinical sterility of the Governor's bathroom is daunting to say the least. It smells like a hospital. Smells like washed away sins.

Once inside, she washes her hands. Washes her face. Struggles to stay awake. Cracks the door open, only to find Joan standing in front of the entryway, blocking her exit.

“Erm, pardon me, Guv'na--”

At a slight angle, the Governor tilts her head. Raises a brow. Reveals nothing though she creeps closer, closer, until they're both in the washroom. Cornered, Vera takes a few steps back. Her foolish, fragile spine caresses the rim of the porcelain basin of the sink. A bruise from her carelessness is guaranteed.

A sliver of a wolfish smile touches Joan's lips. She folds her hands in front of herself, still remaining immaculate in appearance.

"I'm impressed, Vera. You've taken such... proactive measures. Shall I commend you for your dedication, hm? Consider this a reward," she muses.

Taps the Deputy's badge that gleams – shiny, but not new.

With her elbows now resting on the sink, Vera struggles to unfasten the first few buttons of her blouse. Bit by bit, it comes undone. Exposes her collarbone. Her chest. The white bra that begets innocence.

“Thank you,” she replies though the words tumble together as one breathless “thankyou” that she'll wince inwardly about in the hours spent alone in her bed.

A predator lurches forward; a mouse offers herself up as a snack.

The thing about Joan, Vera finds, is that she's so frustratingly  _tall_. Well, there are many things to Joan; this is one of them. She wonders if her back ever grows weary from lurching forward whilst swallowing up her deputy like the mid-day shade. The thought abandons her and she's all too distracted by the warmth in her stomach, the tug between her legs.

“Turn,” the Governor commands in a single word that oozes the pinnacle of authority.

It's difficult to refuse such an order. Compliant, Vera's heels click. She spies her reflection in the mirror looking quite flushed. Her bun's begun to unravel, much like herself. Given the restriction of her bra and uniform, she can hardly breathe. A zipper screams when her skirt makes its slippery descent. Pleated cotton falls around her ankles. The bridge of her panties are pulled aside. A cruel touch strokes her lower lips. Traces over her slit. From the lack of proper touch, her clit throbs. Beats on like a fiery drum.

“That's it,” Joan coaxes her out of her modest shell. Implores for her to respond to this electric need.

How wanton she looks. How needy, how pathetic, how fucking  _desperate_.

Entertained fantasies exist now as reality.

A click of teeth accompanies the flaring of nostrils. Scorching hot breath trails across the corded column of her neck. It causes the meek mouse to offer up a summer shudder.

Again, she's spun around. A clothed thigh parts her legs. Delicious friction grounds her. Yet, has her craving more. Gasping, Vera spreads her legs. Her hands clutch at the porcelain basin that makes up the sink.

"Go on. Touch yourself. You don't expect me to do all the work, do you? Proper teamwork requires a certain level of communication. Work for it"

Joan feeds her snippets. Tender morsels. Full mouthfuls. Choice words that are intended to be praise. Ever the eager pupil, Miss Bennett eats it up.

The rest of her blouse falls open, ribs pried apart for the great transplant, but whose? It doesn't matter. You all  _wish_  you were in her position.

"O-oh. Oh, yes... Guv'na."

She squeezes her breasts. Pinching her nipples. Blunt nails – she's gotten a French manicure to emulate the Governor furthermore – trace down her chest and over her stomach that lurches from the touch. How she spends her time privately is now shared intimately. Vera yearns to close her eyes; she finds that she can't. Not with Joan watching her, a mirth and a hunger to combat the haunt buried within those obsidian depths.

Finally, she opens her up for the kill. With her lower lips parted, Vera gasps. Knees knock together. She holds harder onto the sink; it's her lifeline, the only rock that can keep her standing strong. Such a pretty orchid opens up for Joan rather nicely. One finger traces her slit. Then, two.

A corner of her mouth curves upright.

Their hands converge in a joint effort. Vera's fingers slip lower, past the damp nest of curls, and to her wet lips. She pushes her thumb into her clit. Rubs in hasty circles. Fast and eager.

In a frantic dance, she arches her back.

Vera moans, heady and desperate.

"Guv'na, I need it; I need you."

"Slow down," Joan patronizes. "Enjoy iT."

In the heat of the moment, Vera feels a twinge of disappointment. Inwardly, she tears herself apart. It's replaced by the feeling of long, thick fingers inside of her. Combined with the pressure applied to her clit, she pants. Moves her hips in tandem to the pleasure of feeling so full.

It seems that Joan hardly breaks a sweat from the endeavor. She parts her fingers and curls them. Scratches at fine, velvet walls.

The beauty lies in the art of one's unraveling.

"Guv'na. O-oh, oh. I'm coming, I'm coming!"

Her bottom lip begins to quiver, her hips moving even quicker to accommodate the intensity of each thrust. Slowing down has been forgotten, replaced by the reward of a delicious, hard fuck.

"Shh.  _Show_ , don't tell."

Her free hand rises. A wrist flicks mid-air. A finger is pressed to those chapped, trembling lips. Even Vera's mouth is petal soft without the bite. It'll be a tragedy to witness such softness harden.

With her fingers to her lips, Joan steals something most precious

Toes curl within her heels.

When she comes, she gasps. Her eyes appear more grey than blue, the former light burning out. Whimpering, her mouth opens and parts. It feels so good; it feels like dying.

With one last gusto, Joan surges her wrist forward. Curls her fingers deep inside before retracting. Wiping them on a cloth to be deposited into the laundry.

"What about you?" Vera asks, breathless.

Her thighs and hamstrings quiver. She can hardly hold herself up. Leans against the bathroom sink for support.

Joan indulges in a darker fantasy: the mouse laying on the floor, covered in bite-marks and bruises. Truth be told, she admires the newly found boldness, but there's something enticing about seeing a pretty thing with broken wings.

She neglects the telltale wetness between her legs.

"Mm. I believe that was a quite sufficient display, wasn't it? This was all about achieving your hierarchy of needs, Vera."

She never knows what Joan is thinking.

Perhaps that's the most terrifying part to Joan Ferguson's impenetrable fortress.

It's a raincheck in the works.


	2. Reciprocate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished a paper and therefore, decided to reward myself by finishing this fic. Hope you like the second portion. Do keep in mind that it's not a continuation, per say, but a reciprocation of pleasure. xx

A willing participant in the long run, Governor Bennett lets Joan Ferguson into her office. The guard from the third shift escorts an impressive figure clad in teal. He thinks nothing of the conquest, merely assumes it to be an exchange between Top Dog and Governor; it's an old Faustian bargain. There's always something to lose.

So when Miss Bennett shoots him a look, he scrams. The door locks behind Ferguson. Rather, she locks it. Slants the blinds, as she's always done, regardless of her position within the prison regime.

This marks an affair to commence late in the night.

Dear, little Vera – the mouse who aspires to be a conniving wolf – stands and pushes back the chair that's bestowed her with plenty of back problems. Fingertips lightly graze the top of this gracious throne.

"Sit here," Vera commands while patting the Governor's seated. "You've _earned_ it, haven't you?"

She echoes words seemingly forgotten.

"It's not my birthday," Joan responds in a concise fashion. Mocks her so. She cocks her head. Her hands, one scarred and the other picture perfect, fold in front of her shapely waist. Every ministration is timed, borderline lethal.

_No, but mine was yesterday._

The graphic scene replays quite vividly in her head, a strip of film that reenacts Juice's gruesome demise. Vera shudders at the memory and maybe Joan senses it. She comes closer, attracted to the fear and repulsion.

What's fucking become of them?

Some people love the shame. Perhaps Vera's one of them. She offers up her seat to the Devil in the bloody details.

“You haven't laced it with poison, have you?” Ferguson quips. A twitch of her lips hide her amusement though the thinly-veiled betrayal always lingers beneath the surface.

“No,” Governor Bennett responds, exasperated.

Maybe they're both eager to see where it goes.

Joan walks with a purpose that Vera could never properly emulate. Long legs carry her far in a short amount of time. Hips sway. She holds her head high, the iconic portrait of pride. Behind the desk, she assumes her proper place. This is the chair that has always belonged to her; this is the chair that dear Vera _drowns_ in.

But not anymore.

The die's been cast.

Heels rat-a-tat-tat, unlike the soft padding of tennis shoes, when Vera comes around (and she always does).

Without hesitation, Vera straddles Joan's lap, her hips sure to ache in the morning. Unceremoniously, she crowns the victor – the one responsible for her defenestration. Lacing her arms around the neck of a stoic, her fingers steeple at the nape. They hold a vacant stare that's a testament to the loneliness which hollows out the soul. For once, she initiates. Vera kisses her. Drags her teeth across her bottom lip.

Ferguson appears bemused, if not clinically fascinated by the spectacle. That expression transforms into one of mild agitation. The vein in her neck stands out.

There's an inherent gentleness to the way in which Vera takes what she wants. Manicured nails comb through the grey that collects at Joan's temples. Forehead to forehead, a sigh is procured; who does it? Neither can tell, neither care.

"You need to be in control, don't you?" Vera asks in between biting kisses that are comparable to an asp's sting.

"So do you," Joan challenges rather childishly, betraying that archetypal villain's mold, her voice hoarse and her desire – for once – transparent.

Vera musters a half-smile before detangling herself from the former governor. On her knees, she assumes her fall from grace. She hates the gaudy look of the teal; it does little for a woman like Joan.

Slim fingers pluck at the waistband that snaps. Rubberbands back. Somehow, her former mentor allows for her to continue. Allows consent to the act that promises to follow.

Joan shifts upon the seat, arguably too enamored by her former power and glory. She lifts her bum to accommodate for the way the sweats slither down her legs. Next, come the iconic black underwear. White doesn't suit a woman of her own making.

Lips peel back to reveal her teeth. The response is a primitive one. A granite gaze threatens to ignite her long lost disciple ablaze. She plucks out the bobbypins that hold Vera Bennett together. Her hair falls into a ponytail before the band is snapped and the chestnut mane flows past her shoulders. It's a waterfall that Joan aims to capture and she does – she winds it through her good hand, over and over again with a savage tug.

Vera moans, either from pain or pleasure.

It invokes a familiar warmth.

Reverent kisses trail the inner part of her pale thighs. Tongue replaces lips and it's lewd: Vera's so eager, so desperate to please, in the fear of becoming the monster under her bed. She commits the taste to memory, the tip of her button nose brushing past soft, dark curls to focus on a burning center.

She serves a dark altar.

Teasing lower lips with wet, hot licks, she refuses to probe deeper. Pretty, petty kisses linger over her clit. Lightly, she scratches at her thighs. Her intention is neither to hurt nor heal.

There's too much between them these days.

Joan sighs though it's similar to the distant rumble of thunder. The omnipotence matches Zeus despite her Hera-esque stance. She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth, falls deeper into the animalistic scheme.

A knuckle traces her slit. Vera pays tribute to the one who's built her atop a pillar of salt. Her jaw aches from absolute devotion and the tenacity in which she bobs her head. Her tongue dips in and out. She coaxes a monument to completion.

“Vera!” There's an impatient tug on her hair, threatening to uproot the entirety of her being. "I'm _coming_ ," Joan announces in a sonorous drawl.

Cruelly, Vera denies her. She removes her mouth from this centerpiece and stands up. Her breathing's shallow, her chest heaving. She imagines that Joan's nipples must be scraping the sweatshirt in a demand for attention.

A flushed cheek brushes against Joan's when the acting Governor stands. Her hand continues to cup her sex, the heel of her palm digging in. She licks her pulse. Mirrors acts done to her in an old, sordid dance.

There's no mirror to compare the two scenes.

"Shh," Governor Bennett murmurs, hushing her. A finger to her lips. History repeats itself in Ouroboros fashion. "Show; _don't_ tell."

She thrusts two fingers inside and quests for another soul-stealing kiss. Vera brings the architect of her undoing to completion. In and out her fingers dare to venture. Blue-grey eyes flutter shut, unable to watch the abyss and how it enraptures her so.

Joan comes with a sharp gasp, swift and sudden, akin to a foil marking an opponent for eminent failure.

She clenches around Vera. Takes her fingers deeper with one, last frantic lurch of her hips. Her breath comes out in a sharp one, two take.

This time, Ferguson looks up at Vera, panting. They're both ruined beyond repair. She releases her hair. The iron grip's relinquished. They maintain eye contact. Vera's slack-jawed and swollen-lipped, her pupils blown out of proportion – it matches Joan's darkness. Ferguson claws at the throne that once belonged to her. They say nothing save; the shortness of breath speaks in volumes. The rain check's been fulfilled.

 


End file.
